


Until The Earth Is Free

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, I honestly have no idea how, I tried to write a happy version of 'the colour of despair' and it turned out more sad, M/M, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, but i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:40:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6309232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I tried to write a happier version of 'The Colour Of Despair' - I failed. It's much, much worse.</p><p>'He hopes that he stirs to a new Republic taking it's first shaky steps, risen out of smoke and righteous fury, but he knows that the lack of canon fire does not signal a victory. He wants to have been proven wrong. He wants to think enough feeling was inspired from Lamarque's death and the efforts of students to ignite a successful uprising. He wants to think that powerless against angry mobs of such scales, the National Guard were forced to back down. '</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until The Earth Is Free

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for it being pretty damn grim overall. Blood mention, angst, failed revolutions etc, etc.

Their son is born into the world on a dark, rainy evening. Grantaire thinks it a small miracle that all of Paris does not hear the ordeal; it is a difficult birth, and half-way through Combeferre banishes Grantaire from the room, his brow covered in sweat and his eyes wild with panic. Grantaire exiles himself from the study, and fully expects that Enjolras is to die. Why else should Combeferre send him away? He thinks if he is clever about it, he may be able to drink himself to death before Combeferre delivers him the news. He was never a man for church, but still, he finds himself trying to bargain with every god ever named that Enjolras might live. He would take his place in a heartbeat, he tells them. He is already half drowned in gin when the young medical student comes to him, his sleeves rolled up and his apron drenched in blood. Enjolras and the infant both live, he says, and Grantaire falls to his knees and weeps with relief.

When he sees Enjolras it is like looking upon a corpse, and for a moment Grantaire fears Combeferre is mistaken, for Enjolras looks like he has no place among the living. He is pale, so pale, and so weak that it seems to Grantaire that he can see through him. The sheets are bundled up in the corner of the room, more red than white, and Enjolras is covered with clean blankets. Combeferre has fear in his eyes still, and a whispered dread that Enjolras will not recover. There is still a very real risk that infection will creep into his blood. The baby is healthy, and fits perfectly into Enjolras' arms; he looks too much like Grantaire, a few dark shiny curls and his familiar features. For all his previous aversion to the idea of parenthood, Enjolras seems to soften at the sight of the infant in a way Grantaire had not imagined possible. He calls the child beautiful and kisses his forehead, and Grantaire wonders how Enjolras can ever think that when he looks so like him. Grantaire refuses every offer to hold his son; he cannot love the child until he knows for certain that Enjolras will live. It is selfish and cruel and wrong of him and he knows it. He wishes he were a better man.

Enjolras recovers, though not without a few nights of fever; Grantaire keeps a vigil at his bedside, dabbing his face with a damp cloth. Whether it is instinct or otherwise Enjolras comes to adore the child, and tentatively, when certain that Enjolras will not die, Grantaire comes to do the same. When Combeferre feels the time has come to send the baby away his attempts to pry the infant from Enjolras' arms are futile. Enjolras fights like a wild animal to keep him, all claws and teeth. 'I have changed my mind' he tells him, and the fire in his eyes is not to be tested, 'I would like to keep him'. It seems impossible, and for a moment Grantaire is foolish and wrong enough to think maybe some parental instinct has driven an irreparable wedge between Enjolras and his Patria and that maybe he will cast aside politics for his child. The illusion soon passes; that very night Enjolras formulates a plan that will allow him to juggle both revolution and fatherhood. He names the boy Camille, and Grantaire thinks it amusingly appropriate that Enjolras should choose a revolutionary name for their child.

It is soon decided that Grantaire will take the boy. He'll claim him as his bastard, and Enjolras, so charitable that he is, will invite Grantaire and the baby to share his lodgings with him rather than see an innocent raised in squalor, despite his obvious disdain for Grantaire's lifestyle. It is a clever plan; Enjolras shall get to help raise his son, albeit from a careful distance. Grantaire is apparently a necessary evil that comes with that privilege; it feels too much for Grantaire to handle, that he will have to live in such close proximity to the man who was at one time his lover. He wonders what he will be to Enjolras when their arrangement comes into play. A nuisance? A temptation? He thinks that if anything, he will be a harsh reminder of how Enjolras came to be in this situation.

It comes together too easily, almost. Grantaire thinks he ought to be insulted by how easily Les Amis take to the idea that Camille is the result of some drunken romp with a baker's daughter. He thinks this, but deep down he is relieved that they do not think better of him. It gives him fewer expectations to disappoint, and lessens the possibility of Camille's true parentage being uncovered. Enjolras makes a public spectacle of offering Grantaire a place in his home, 'Your accommodations are no fit place for a child' he says, voice filled with lofty pity, 'Combeferre and I have a spare bedroom in our own lodgings. You may stay there, for the sake of your son. He does not deserve to suffer for your vices.' Grantaire aches inside at how easy the words seem to leave Enjolras' lips. There is no effort in the so-called feigned contempt. Perhaps it is what he thinks of him, deep down.

'His mother must have been a pretty little thing,' Bossuet remarks when he gets a look at the infant for the first time, 'His eyes are blue as the skies!' Grantaire cannot help but feel pride swell in his chest. 'Yes,' he says, and he does not dare to glance at Enjolras, who is reviewing a recently passed law with Combeferre at the front of the room, 'The most beautiful.' It is painful to endure. He shares Enjolras' home as he shares their child, but shamefully he still dreams of sharing his bed. It is the worst at night, when he is left alone in a cold room with sordid memories and too much gin in his system. He brings himself to a miserable, lonely end, and hates himself for it.

It is an easy ruse, in the beginning. To hire a nanny would be too much a risk, and so with no other options Grantaire brings the child to the meetings, bundled up in a basket. Nobody pays any heed to them save for when Camille cries, and when that happens those of them most fond of children swarm around him to coo and assist Grantaire in quieting him. He is soon a permanent fixture at their meetings, and Grantaire finds that the responsibility discourages his hand from straying to the bottle as often. More nights than not he retreats home sober and in high spirits. 'What kind of father brings his child here?' his friends say, but it is full of warmth and laughter. 'One who loves his child greatly,' Grantaire defends, and there is no lie. He often catches Enjolras watching him from the front of the room; sometimes he dares believe it is warmth he sees in his eyes.

Camille stays in Enjolras' room most nights, and Grantaire thinks it a wonder that Enjolras should find time between work and what little rest he affords himself to wake in the small hours and tend to their son. One morning before the sun has risen Grantaire finds him sitting in the window of the parlour, trying to soothe the infant back to sleep. He looks soft around the edges, blanketed in a hazy blue glow, and his voice is gentle, too gentle, though too quiet to hear what he is saying. It is probably some beautiful rhetoric about how he will make the world better for him, so he will not have to give his life to a revolution the way Enjolras surely will. Whatever he is saying, Grantaire feels as though he has stumbled upon something he should never have witnessed. He leaves in silence, not wanting Enjolras to know he has unwittingly trespassed upon such a private moment.

It is six months after Camille is born that Grantaire receives a visitor in the night; Enjolras slips into the room like a ghost, almost ethereal in his white nightshirt, hair a messy tumble of pale curls. Grantaire wakes to his name, uttered quietly and like a curse. Enjolras kisses him like he means to start a war, nails digging into Grantaire's shoulders as he straddles him, and Grantaire is only happy to comply. They kiss, deep and desperate. It's all teeth and fire, and they stop before they get beyond excited touches, Grantaire tearing himself free of Enjolras when he sees the loathing in his eyes. It is not aimed at him, though; he sees it runs much deeper. _He hates himself for wanting this_ , he realises. Patria is Enjolras' first love, and it must feel like adultery to be guiding Grantaire's hand between his legs. 'Go back to your room,' Grantaire tells him, though it feels like a dagger in his chest, 'Please. Not all of you is here. I will not have only half of you.' Enjolras moves from Grantaire's lap and sits at the edge of the bed, breathing deeply. They stay that way for what feels like an hour, until Camille begins to wail and Enjolras retreats to his room like a wounded animal. They do not talk of it in the morning. Grantaire knows in his heart there can be nothing between them ever again. Enjolras has had his time of enjoying such lowly, mortal pleasures.

It was an easy ruse, in the beginning, but it is that children do not stay small for long, and by the time Camille is three their secret has become a taxing thing to keep, a terrible weight upon their shoulders. The child is bright and curious, with Grantaire's dark hair and jawline, but as he grows he resembles Enjolras more and more, in the vibrant blue of his eyes and the boldness of his nature. He refers to Enjolras by his name, something which Grantaire can see brings Enjolras great anguish. 'I would love that he could call me his father,' He confesses one night when Grantaire finds him sat alone in the study; he nurses a cup of wine, something Grantaire has never witnessed him do before, such as he claims to scorn drunkards. 'I would be so proud to put my name to that boy.' he says, and his voice is heavy and his lips stained red. Grantaire wants to kiss the sadness from him, but that time has long since passed.

Camille is not the only one that threatens their secret. For all his developing resemblance to Enjolras, none of Les Amis would dare to speak a word out of turn about it. But Enjolras himself does not help. For a man with little vanity or care for worldly goods, he dotes upon Camille as only a parent would. Their friends will turn a blind-eye to much, but even they cannot ignore such a strange phenomenon, so rare it is for Enjolras to be so frivolous with his wealth. Enjolras showers the child with gifts, and Grantaire does not have the heart to deny him the one act of parental love he may express publicly. Camille and Grantaire live with him, and what harm is there in a man buying toys and clothing for his friend's son, he says? 'They do not know the truth,' he argues, when Grantaire tries to dissuade him from such extravagance, 'We are friends, in their eyes. You even tell them you made me the child's godfather! Where is the shame in me spoiling my godson?' Grantaire says nothing more, though silently he watches as their friends begin to whisper behind their backs.

The gifts are not all that draws suspicion. As Camille gets older, Enjolras takes it upon himself to educate him. 'I will not send him away to a school,' he insists fiercely, when Grantaire dares so much as imply it may be a struggle for Enjolras to educate him thoroughly alongside all his own work, 'I will teach him myself. I will not send him away.' he says. And so it is that it soon becomes common to see Enjolras sitting at the back of the room with Camille when he is not speaking during their meetings, teaching him how to read and to write. He is stern but patient, a surprisingly capable teacher, but this, like the gifts, does not go unnoticed by their friends. 'I did not think Enjolras cared much for children, yet he takes to Camille as though he were his own,' Joly says one evening, over too much gin. Grantaire does not look at his friend when he answers. 'Living with one has endeared him to them somewhat,' he says, 'And he sees Camille as a pupil of the Republic. The future of his dear France!'

Joly does not seem convinced, but he graciously does not voice it. He takes a long drink from his cup, 'Camille is an odd name for you to choose,' he says eventually, 'One would think you named him for Desmoulins, yet you are no man of the revolution.' Grantaire grips the table edge tightly, 'His mother gave him the name.' he says, and feels sick to his stomach with shame for putting the word 'mother' to Enjolras, 'I had no say in it.'

As Camille grows, so does the budding rebellion that has taken root across Paris. Grantaire watches Enjolras tear himself in two to be both father and revolutionary. It is always Patria who wins his heart though, and towards the end of May he begins to leave Camille more and more in Grantaire's care. 'I have work to do,' he tells his son, when the boy asks why they have not practised reading together for weeks. _So like Enjolras, to be so precocious where education is concerned_ , Grantaire thinks. 'We will read together all the time when all of this is over.' Enjolras promises. Camille beams, so young that he has no clue of what 'all of this' entails, of all the blood and gunpowder that will be spent in the name of liberty. _What will anyone tell this child, if Enjolras and I should die?_ Grantaire thinks with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Enjolras packs up his books and documents and has left for the Musain before Grantaire can ask him what might become of their child if the barricades fall.

June starts violently. Its arrival is heralded by the sickness and then subsequent death of General Lamarque, the people's man, and all at once there is upheaval in the winding streets. Les Amis plaster walls with flyers, pass out pamphlets on the streets, and behind the damp walls of Cafe Musain, gather ammunition and guns. Grantaire watches from the back of the room as Enjolras makes a catalogue of their firearms, a steely determination about him that makes him unapproachable. _When his dream of a better future is at stake, Enjolras can turn the very air around him to ice_ , Grantaire thinks as he takes a swig of his gin. Their son draws beside him, oblivious to the tension in the room. 'You had ought to head home,' Courfeyrac tells him, patting his shoulder, 'You have a child to provide for; you shouldn't be on the barricades.' Grantaire rises to leave, resenting the position Enjolras has placed him in. He wants to go to the barricade with Enjolras, to die beside him if he must, yet he does not know what will happen to Camille if he does so. _Did you keep him to force me to live?_ He wants to ask Enjolras. It has worked, if so. He did not think he could love anybody more than he loved Enjolras, but now he knows that to be untrue. He cannot bear the thought of leaving his son alone in the world.

The evening before the barricades arise is a grim affair. Enjolras kneels before his son, takes in the sight of him as though he is trying to memorize his features, from the dark curls that fall into his face to the petulant pout of his lips. He presses an envelope into the boy's small hands, 'I do not know exactly when I will return,' he says, choosing his words cautiously, _Or if he will at all,_ Grantaire thinks, 'But this is for you. You must not read it until your father tells you that you can. Do you promise me that you will not?' Camille nods, and he seems to understand the serious nature of what is happening, because Grantaire sees his blue eyes start to shine with tears. Enjolras' composure cracks for a heartbeat, and he pulls Camille into his arms, 'You are most loved.' he tells him, and he does not look at Grantaire. He clings to him tightly, for a brief moment the ruse of being a godparent no longer there; he holds him as only a desperate parent could hold their child. Grantaire fancies he sees him shake. 'Please be good for your father.' he says, and kisses Camille's forehead like a holy blessing. He runs his fingers through his dark curls one final time, and then sends the boy to bed. 

It is after Camille has fallen asleep that Grantaire finds the courage to go to Enjolras. He finds him in the study, inspecting his flintlock with a disgusted sort of reverence. 'This was my father's', he tells Grantaire, without glancing up from it, 'I took it. He probably doesn't even know it is missing.' He says that he finds it so sickeningly apt that the wealthy dress up their weaponry as though to disguise it's purpose. He says that with gold and ivory it is so easy to pretend shooting a man with a pistol is more noble than clubbing him to death in an alleyway. 'To behave as though slaughtering a man for pride or honour is in some way cleaner than other forms of murder makes me laugh' he admits, 'I hope I do not have to live with someone's blood on my hands.' Grantaire sits beside him, surprised when Enjolras reaches for his hand. 'That includes yours. Please, look after yourself for him.' Grantaire cannot answer.

Enjolras leaves in the morning, clad in a scarlet tailcoat and a sense of duty. He is painted bright and brilliant by the morning sunlight, the gold of his hair a beacon that Grantaire prays will not make him an easy target. He watches him leave from the window, and wonders if he shall ever see him again. He longs to follow him, to throw his life down at his feet the way he feels it should be. Later that day some of the commotion reaches him, though the part of Paris where Enjolras has his lodging is too respectable to feel the brunt of it. A horrible silence settles over the city when it begins to grow dark, and Grantaire finds himself on the edge of Enjolras' bed, rambling Greek mythology to Camille as he drifts off to sleep. To speak aloud shatters the silence somewhat, makes it less loaded, but when his son is asleep he is left to confront it once again. Grantaire's fingers itch, seeking a most familiar antidote to his misery, and when Camille is sleeping deeply he retreats to the study. He finds he has gravitated there at all important turns in their journey; he sat there the night Camille was born, dreading the thought of Enjolras' demise, and it seems a laughable irony that it has come full circle, back to that. He thinks perhaps he is drawn to it because it is the one room in the house that is so thoroughly Enjolras, filled with his books and letters and personal musings. He is everywhere, in the stained pages and leather bindings and even the choice of wallpaper. Grantaire drinks himself to sleep there, fingertips tracing Enjolras' signature, dreaming violent dreams through his haze of absinthe. He sees it all unravel like some terrible prophecy before him; Enjolras gutted by a bayonet, the blood of his friends running deep between the cobbles on the street, their barricade in ruins.

Grantaire wakes late into the day, his head pounding and his mouth tasting of vomit. He hopes that he stirs to a new Republic taking it's first shaky steps, risen out of smoke and righteous fury, but he knows that the lack of canon fire does not signal a victory. He wants to have been proven wrong. He wants to think enough feeling was inspired from Lamarque's death and the efforts of students to ignite a successful uprising. He wants to think that powerless against angry mobs of such scales, the National Guard were forced to back down. He wants, most of all, to think that against all odds Enjolras will return home to them, scared and wounded, but alive, alive, so beautifully, painfully alive. He would be content to never touch him again if he were to see him live.

He does not get his wish.

 

 


End file.
